


leave my body

by noctiphany



Series: bdsm au [1]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dom/sub, Flogging, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 20:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21344401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctiphany/pseuds/noctiphany
Summary: “Slade,” he grits out. “Nothing is off-limits. I don’t need a damn safe word. I want you to -- I want you to fucking break me. Okay? Can’t you just do that?”
Relationships: Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson
Series: bdsm au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538716
Comments: 15
Kudos: 196





	leave my body

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes: 
> 
> \- the Dick/Slade pairing in this part is strictly bdsm, there is no relationship or sex, only pain. :p
> 
> \- Dick is in a terrible mental state, do not try this at home, etc.
> 
> \- Slade having a red room of pain is HILARIOUS go away

“Yes.”

Dick still isn’t sure what he’s doing. No, that’s not true. He’s sure. He knows what he’s doing. He thought about it for two weeks, after Slade caught him on that rooftop. After he saw the bags under Dick’s eyes and caught him before he nearly fell off the damn roof. After the conversation they had. 

He knows what he’s doing. He’s just. He’s finding it all a little hard to accept, maybe. He’s never asked for help before. And this -- it’s not help, not _ really_. For some people, it might seem like the opposite of helping. But Dick knows this is what he needs. And hell, even if it isn’t, it’s what he wants. To be hurt. Punished for his sins, his crimes, his inadequacies, his failures. Whether it helps or not, he at least wants to get that much out of it. 

So here he is, standing in a penthouse loft that Slade Wilson keeps in Gotham City. The sun went down three hours ago and the city is lit up beneath them, thousands of tiny lights making up the skyline. It’s a nice place if a bit Spartan, just like Slade. There are a few paintings on the walls, a couple of houseplants that Dick assumes came with the place and are probably fake, and the open floor plan is making him feel the opposite of claustrophobic. There’s just. Too _much. _

“Okay,” Dick says again, seeing as how all Slade has done since he walked in was stand at the bar in the kitchen and sip on a glass of whiskey. Finally, Slade gives him a little nod toward the dining room table and starts walking in that direction. Dick follows. 

He sits, not at the opposite end of the table, but a few seats down from Slade. “What are we doing?” 

“We should talk,” Slade says, setting his highball glass down. Dick’s skin starts to crawl. No, he doesn’t want to talk. That is absolutely not what he wants to do. It’s not what he _ came _ here for. He came here to not talk, not _t__hink. _

“What, like how’s your day? Mine was great, stopped a couple of muggings, saved a woman from getting sexually assaulted, settled a gang war. Why, how many people did you kill?” 

Slade smirks. “I don’t give a shit about your day and you don’t give a shit about mine.” 

Oh thank god. 

“Then what?” Dick asks, bouncing his knee under the table. 

“Usually, there’s a conversation to be had when agreeing to something like this.” 

“What conversation,” Dick snaps. “I want you to hurt me and make me not think. What’s there to talk about?” 

This was already harder than he wanted it to be. He was supposed to just show up, say yes, and well, he assumed they would get right to it. Honestly, he hadn’t thought beyond that. It had taken two weeks for him to even work up the nerve to say _ yes, Deathstroke, please hit me until I can no longer think straight. _

“Just a few things,” Slade says and it’s infuriating how fucking calm he is while Dick is buzzing out of his skin. Dick has to wonder if he does this often, with all kinds of people. It's just, he almost seems bored. “Do you have a safe word?”

Dick glares at him. “Slade, what the hell.”

The look Slade gives him back is interesting, half confusion, half -- something else Dick can’t quite place. “Sorry?”

“You _ know _ what this is. You know who I am. Why on God’s earth would I have ever agreed to something like this if I thought I needed or wanted a _ safe word? _”

Slade snorts, shrugs. “What about hard no’s? Things that are off-limits. Do you --”

Dick slams his fist down on the table, thankful the glass top didn’t break. “Slade,” he grits out. “Nothing is off-limits. I don’t need a damn safe word. I want you to -- I want you to fucking _ break _ me. Okay? Can’t you just do that?”

Slade narrows his eyes at him for a moment, lifts his glass of whiskey and down the rest of it all at once.

“Yeah, kid,” he says. “I can do that. Follow me.” 

  
  


: : : 

  
  


Dick follows Slade into his bedroom, then Slade opens a door inside the bedroom that actually leads into a different room. Dick had thought it was just a closet or something, but when Slade walks in, Dick follows him, and --

Oh.

“Slade,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “What the hell?”

Slade just turns and smirks at him. “Grayson,” he says. “Did you honestly think I would offer something like that and not have any idea what I was doing?” 

Dick swallows. Honestly, he hadn’t thought of it much at all beyond the words _ quiet all that shit in your head. _ Slade had promised that he could do that, that he’d help him forget about all of his responsibilities and just...disappear for a while. Dick had fixated on that, obsessed about it for two weeks. He hadn’t even considered how Slade was going to accomplish it, didn’t _ care. _He just knew he needed it. 

And now, he feels like a fucking idiot. 

“Is this,” he says, looking around. There’s a wall that has nothing but crazy things that look like torture devices hanging from it. On the far wall there’s some kind of wooden, X shaped thing. In the corner there’s some kind of weird bench with straps on it and _jesus christ, _what did he get himself into? “Is this a...sex dungeon?”

Slade snorts. “Sure, you can call it that." 

“What are you -- what are you going to do to me?” Dick swallows again, his throat completely parched all of a sudden. This time, Slade turns and cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation already, kid,” he says, tilting his head a little to the side. It’s the look he always gets when he’s trying to call Dick’s bluff, and he’s usually right. Dick’s not bluffing this time though, he’s just -- a little freaked out. “You wanna go, you know where the door is.” 

“What?” Dick says instantly. “No I didn’t say that.” 

Sure, he’s freaked out, but he’s not about to let Slade have the pleasure of seeing him run off like some scared baby just because he saw a few bullwhips or...whatever those are. 

“Yeah?” Slade asks, eyebrow still raised. “You wanna rethink what I asked you in the kitchen? Hard limits and --

“No,” Dick snaps. He’s starting to get annoyed again rather than freaked out, and he thinks he prefers that better. Now he remembers why he’s here, what he wants. And well, Slade’s freaky sex dungeon looks like exactly the kind of place that can assist him with that. “I told you I’m fine. What do you want me to do?” 

Slade just stands there and takes him in for a moment, still doing that thing where he looks like he’s _ studying _ him that Dick hates, then just gives a little shrug of his shoulders. “Strip,” he says. “To your boxers.” 

Slade walks away to grab something from a cabinet and Dick tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He’s really being hit from all sides, not that it’s not totally his fault. He never even thought to ask if this kind of thing -- if Slade intended it to be sexual. He knows from porn and movies and stuff that it can be, but. God, he feels like such an idiot. He at _ least _ should have asked about that. It’s not that Slade’s terrible to look at, he’s fairly attractive for someone who kills people for money, but that just isn’t what Dick is wanting from this. He doesn’t want pleasure. He wants pain. He wants to be punished. He’s still panicking a little about the sex thing when Slade walks back over to him.

“Slade,” Dick says, then shakes his head. “Nevermind.” 

He doesn’t want to ask anymore questions. He doesn’t want to talk. He just wants to _ do _ something. But Slade, as always, is one step ahead of him. It’s like he knows what Dick needs before Dick does, sometimes. It’s funny, that’s actually how this whole thing started. Slade catching him before he fell off a roof, seeing the signs of exhaustion and stress and fatigue. Offering something that sounded so crazy, but so good he couldn’t turn it down. 

“I had you strip so I could get to your back,” he says. “Not because I intend on fucking you. Give me your wrist.” 

Dick nods, relief flooding him, and offers his arm up to Slade without question. Slade wraps a soft and cool leather cuff around his wrist, then secures it. Then Dick holds the other wrist out and he does the same thing. 

“Ankle,” Slade says, squatting down and Dick puts one foot delicately on Slade’s thigh, letting him secure the same type of cuff, only thicker, around each ankle. When he stands up, Slade grabs Dick’s wrist and raises it up, slides his finger between leather and skin. 

“These are yours,” Slade says to him. “I just bought them. No one else has used them. They belong to you.” 

Dick’s chest constricts.

“And when you’re wearing them,” Slade says, his voice dropping low and dark. “You belong to me.”

Dick wonders if Slade can hear how fast his heart is pounding in his chest. He doesn’t like this. That. He doesn’t _ want _ to belong to him. He doesn’t want to belong to anybody. He thinks, at one time, he belonged to Bruce, but he fucked that up and now he’s a mess. He doesn’t deserve to belong to anyone. He’ll just disappoint them. 

“And when you’re wearing these,” Slade continues, like he doesn’t even realize the crisis Dick is having. “You will do exactly as I say. When you’re wearing these cuffs, I own you.”

Dick can’t breathe. God, he’s so fucking useless. They haven’t even done anything and already he wants to run out the nearest window. But this room doesn’t _ have _ any windows. Fuck, he feels trapped. He’s going to start crying, or screaming, or --

“Say yes sir.”

Dick blinks. “What?”

Slade doesn’t smirk, doesn’t raise an eyebrow. His expression is completely different from earlier, from any other time Dick’s ever seen him. Serious, somber, and something just -- different. 

“When you’re wearing these cuffs you will address me as sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Do you understand?” 

“And if I don’t?” Dick doesn’t understand it, but his pulse is actually slowing down a little; it doesn’t feel like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room anymore. 

“Then you get punished,” Slade says, still not smirking or anything, and Christ, that’s chilling. And weirdly hot. “And I think you know, I am not a nice man. I don’t think you want to find out what my punishments are like, Dick.” 

Dick nods. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Slade agrees. “Go step onto the cross over there, facing away from me.”

Dick nods and starts to walk off, then hears Slade clear his throat behind him. Dick turns around, eyebrows drawn together, then remembers. And his face goes hot. 

“Yes sir,” he mutters, looking away quickly and walking over to the cross. It’s more of an X really than a cross, a beautiful looking piece of wood with places on it that looks like where the cuffs might attach. Dick wonders if he built it himself or if he had it custom made. “Why am I getting on this thing?”

“You will do exactly as I say, “ Slade repeats from moments ago. “Which means you do so, no questions asked. Understood?” 

“Yeah,” Dick says. “Yes, sir.” 

His face flushes with heat again, but at least Slade can’t see it this time because Dick’s already turned and facing the other way, his feet on the small platform at the bottom of the cross. He feels Slade’s presence when he moves behind him, starting with his ankles, securing them to each side of the cross, then standing and doing the same with the ones around his wrists. Dick’s buzzing underneath his skin. He wants to ask what’s next, wants to know when Slade is actually going to _ get _ to it, but he’s not supposed to ask. He didn’t know there were going to be so many rules and he’s not sure he likes it. He didn’t ask for rules, he asked Slade to hurt him. He doesn’t understand why the rest of it is necessary at all. 

Dick listens closely as Slade shuffles around behind him, trying to figure out what he’s doing. He can hear things behind shifted around, Slade’s feet across the floor, the sound of...something brushing against something else. Then, something strikes his back and Dick _ yelps. _It didn’t hurt that much, or at all really, it was just surprising. Slade didn’t give him any warning, just immediately went to it. Dick didn’t know what he expected out of him, honestly. The part of his shoulder blade where whatever it was hit him stung as soon as it hit him, but it’s already fading. Dick tries not to feel disappointed. 

“This is made of elk leather,” Slade says and Dick feels, well it sort of feels like one of the things he saw hanging on the wall when he walked in, a bunch of leather strips attached to a handle. He feels it slap against his skin again, almost in the same spot but not quite. “It falls somewhere in the middle of the scale.” 

It hits him again, a little harder. There’s a minor sting, but it almost fades instantly. Dick’s about to start complaining, rules be damned. He could hurt himself better fighting the fucking Condiment King. 

“Not nearly the worst I've got,” Slade continues and the leather strikes him again, this time a little bit below his shoulders, and there’s more than just a sting to it this time, almost like a thud that Dick feels reverberate through his ribcage. “Count.” 

Slade hits him with it again, the sting sparking across his back, and Dick bites down on his lip. Quicker this time, almost right after the one before, Slade strikes him again.

“What did I say?” 

Oh. Right.

“Oh,” Dick says. “Sorry. One.” 

“Sorry, what?” Slade asks, and Dick almost hears the swish-snap of the leather before it hits his skin this time, the sting spreading like wildfire across his back. 

“Sorry, sir,” Dick mutters, digging his teeth into his bottom lip. “Two.”

“Good boy,” Slade says, swinging it again, and Dick’s so preoccupied with what Slade just said to him that he forgets to count. “Hm. Since you can’t seem to follow directions, we’ll have to start from the beginning. _ Count. _”

The leather strips strike Dick’s back hard and unforgiving and he yelps out, “One.” 

After that, he tries to pay more attention. Two, three, and four come spaced out in twenty or thirty second increments, the tails of the leather sometimes dragging over his skin before Slade pulls them back and strikes him with them. 

“Five,” Dick gasps, the leather snapping against his skin lower. Then six, seven, and eight are higher. Slade’s moving all over his back, making sure to spread it to every inch. And it’s a nice, warm sting so far, but it’s not enough. Not nearly. 

Then Slade drags the leather tails over his shoulders and down his back, caressing Dick’s hot flesh with the soft, buttery leather, and -

_ SLAP _

“Ow!” Dick cries out, wrists jerking against the cuffs instinctively. “Fuck.” 

_ SLAP _

_SLAP _

_SLAP _

_ “ _Fuck, ow!” Dick shouts, pulling at the restraints from all four sides now, the pain now longer just stinging, but searing. He doesn’t know if Slade changed tools or just changed the way he was wielding it but something is different now. His back was already warm and covered in a nice sting and now that Slade’s hitting him in such quick succession and so hard and brutal, it actually fucking hurts. 

And he just realized he stopped counting. 

“One more chance,” Slade says, his tone a warning. “I’m not asking much, Dick. Just for you to count each time I hit you. If you can’t even do that much, then I don’t think this is going to be very beneficial to either of us.” 

No, Dick thinks. No, no, no. He can do it. He can do this. He doesn’t want Slade to give up on him already, he can _ do _ this. 

“Sorry, sir,” he apologizes. “It won’t happen again. Please.” 

Dick feels the leather tails caress his back once more. It feels good, but he tenses up, expecting the next strike any moment. "Please, what?"

“Please, sir,” Dick says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t stop.” 

“Very nice,” Slade says. “Now, count.” 

“One,” Dick says, gasping. “Two -- three --four_five. _”

There are tears stinging his eyes and Dick's back feels like it’s been lit on fire, pain shooting up and down, left and right, and each time the leather tails hit him it’s like the pain is just refreshed.

“Six,” Dick wails, wrists tugging so hard at the restraints he’s honestly afraid he might pull them off the cross and he’s worried, because what will Slade do then? Will he give up on him again? Will he make him leave? Dick tries to stop struggling. But it’s hard. “Seveneight --”

His voice cracks on the _ eight, _ the tears falling freely from his eyes now. There’s so much pain his back is almost numb with it. That doesn't even make sense, but it’s hard to think straight. His back is searing with red-hot pain that feels like it goes bone deep, that makes him cry out now anytime the leather even touches him. It used to be soothing, but now every nerve ending on Dick’s back is lit up and it’s torture even just feeling air move against his skin. 

He can’t take anymore. He feels like a failure, pathetic, but he really can’t. It’s just too much. It's not the worst pain he’s ever felt, but it’s definitely up there. He can deal with what he has now, but he just can’t take another strike from it. 

“Please,” he begs. “Slade, don’t --”

_ SLAP _

Dick screams in pain, body trying to coil in on itself despite being spread across the cross and cuffed to it. 

“Nine,” he still manages to say, hiccupping through a sob. At least if he can’t take the beatings, he can at least do that for him. “I can’t, I c-can’t take anymore, _please_.” 

_ SLAP _

_ “Ten,” _Dick barely hears himself cry. 

_ SLAP _

_ SLAP _

_ SLAP _

_ SLAP _

_ SLAP _

Then it’s over. 

It stops.

Dick’s still tense, still waiting for it, still choking on sobs, until he feels Slade’s fingers at his ankles, then at his wrist. And when Slade lowers him off the cross, he has to catch Dick to keep him from collapsing. 

Somehow, Dick makes it to the bed in the middle of the room. He lays his cheek on the coolness of the silky sheets and closes his eyes. The pain in his back throbs. The nerve endings scream every time air from the central air conditioning breezes across his skin. He’s still crying. Big, heavy, hiccupping sobs. 

Then there’s something cool on his back and it’s both the best thing he’s ever felt in his life and the worst, because he doesn’t want _ anything _ to touch him, it fucking _ hurts_, and he doesn’t realize he’s said all or most of that outloud until Slade’s telling him he needs it, that it will help. Dick wants to tell him to go fuck off, to leave him the fuck alone, but he expended all of his energy by saying all of that. All he can do is lay there as Slade’s fingers spread some kind of cool lotion across his back, the pain bursting bright with each touch, consuming him, demanding to be felt and finally, Dick just lets it. He lets the pain have him, take control of him, _own _him, and he simply drifts into the background. Unimportant. Insignificant. 

Its perfect.

: : :

When he wakes up, Dick is freezing. Maybe wakes up isn’t the right term, he doesn’t really think he was asleep. But he doesn't know what to call it. He was definitely out of it for a little while.

“Cold,” he says, finding it difficult to put together an actual sentence. He doesn’t even know if Slade is still there, but he hopes so. He’s so cold and he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t even know if he can. But then there’s a blanket covering him and it hurts his back, but it’s better. He’s shivering so much. 

“Drink,” Slade’s voice says and there’s a straw pressed to his lips again, more ice cold water, and this time Dick drinks the whole thing down. “You good?”

Dick looks up at him. He can barely move without his back screaming in searing pain, but now that he’s coming back to the world, everything seems a lot clearer. He feels --

“Yeah,” Dick says, voice scratchy, probably from all the screaming, or crying. Or both. “I think so.” 

“Good,” Slade says from the other side of the bed, and then, after a few moments. “You did well.”

And it’s ridiculous, the way those words wash over Dick better than any salve, any lotion. It soothes him, calms him, fills him with warmth and pride and confidence, things he hasn't felt in so long. Slade did almost give up on him, but Dick fixed it. He tried harder. He was good for him. He was good. 

“Rethinking that safe word now?” Slade asks and Dick just shakes his head into his pillow. 

He knows how weak he got at the end of the beating. If he’d had a safe word, he would’ve used it. Slade would’ve stopped. Dick wouldn’t have been good for him. 

“No,” Dick says, closing his eyes and focusing on the coolness of the pillowcase and the scent of Slade’s cologne. “I don’t need one.”


End file.
